Wonderfully Round
by The Rabid Toenail
Summary: Francis thinks Alfred's bottom is looking especially lovely lately; Alfred just thinks he's getting fat. Thankfully, there will always be someone big enough to convince him otherwise. USXRussia fluffy oneshot


**Wonderfully Round**

(A USxRussia fic)

**Disclaimer**: It's not miiiine! I don't even have a little box of Krispy Kremes to my name, and I certainly don't own Hetalia. That handsome devil Hidekaz Himaruya does, y'know. Not me. I'm not nearly handsome or devilish enough. That being said, I hope you enjoy the fic!

Alfred peered at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that. Something was off, though he couldn't tell what. His eyes were still the blue of cornflowers and summer skies, his hair was still the gold of American breadbasket wheat. Even Texas was behaving today, perched on his nose with nary a speck of dust to cloud his vision.

He twirled around and around in front of the mirror, until he felt like a very ungraceful ballerina, but he still didn't know what was different. Puffing his cheeks out angrily, Alfred made angry faces in the mirror until he felt he could face the world, whether he looked different or not, and decided to get ready to go out.

He bent over to retrieve his boots from under the bed, but the task proved less easy than he'd anticipated, and he found himself bending further than he'd thought as he tried to weave his hands and arms through the mess under there, dirty laundry and important documents he'd conveniently forgotten about and all the things from his past that he didn't want to keep, but couldn't bear throwing away. It was an incurable jumble down there, but when he stretched his arms and his legs as far as he could, he was rewarded as his fingers barely brushed over the roughness of his boots. "Aha!" he cried jubilantly, latching onto his boots just as he heard someone else's footsteps skipping into his room.

"Why Alfred, _mon cher, _your ass is looking wonderfully round today—and how nice of you to give me such a nice view," Francis cooed cheekily behind him, and before he could react, Alfred cringed in horror as he felt the other man grope his bottom.

"FRANCIS!" he growled angrily, standing quickly—or he would've, if he hadn't had his head half under the bed. As it was, he bumped his head and fell over backward, his eyes rolling around in his head. When the world came back into focus, he saw Francis standing over him, watching him curiously and a little sneakily. "_Francis_!" he hissed, managing to stand this time and advancing on the other man, brandishing his boots in the way a mythical hero might threateningly wave his magic sword around to frighten his enemies away. Alfred was in a no-foolin' mood, though, and he chucked his first shoe at Francis's head with pure malice.

"Ah, but _mon mignon_, your bottom was just so lovely and _rotund_! I couldn't resist!"

Alfred glared at the blond, fully intending to bludgeon him to death several times, but Francis was (thankfully?) saved when Alfred was struck by a Thought.

This was an uncommon enough occurrence, as Alfred only experienced surprise Thoughts at the oddest of times, and he promptly discarded his ideas of hitting Francis upside the head with his boot until his face was shaped like the tread on his shoes so that he could test the theory his mind had supplied.

Francis had never noticed his ass before—the man usually preferred molesting other nations, like Arthur or Feliciano or even poor Matthew (but Alfred had the horrible suspicion that his brother _enjoyed_ it, something he supposed he should berate him for later)—and normally would've merely insulted Alfred's intelligence and/or cooking skill before going off to grope someone else.

It couldn't be true, could it? Alfred walked back to the mirror, took a breath to steel his nerves, and twisted his hips to the side.

And he realized that Francis was right. Alfred sighed a sad sigh and turned back to the other man, who was peeping nervously up at him from behind a couch he'd wisely decided to put in between himself and Alfred's homicidal rages—but really, he needn't have worried. Alfred was no longer a threat, as Francis would find out all too soon.

Alfred pouted, his eyes looking sadder and bluer than Francis had seen them since the man was a child. Alfred almost certainly didn't sniffle, and he would deny he had every time Francis recalled this story at every meeting they had until Alfred did something more embarrassing that Francis could recount. But he might admit that his eyes had been a little watery—from all the dust that had been under the bed, of course—and just maybe his throat had gotten a little tight, from allergies, but he certainly hadn't let any tears fall, because he was a _big_ nation now—

Alfred's line of thought fizzled out abruptly. "I'm _faaaaat_," he whined, wisely choosing to ignore the way Francis giggled behind him.

"Fat or not, Alfred, you're late for the meeting today—unless, of course, you'd like to skip it with _moi_," Francis murmured suggestively, his hand already sneaking back around for a grope.

"_Francis_!" Alfred squawked angrily, dodging the other man's hand and stomping away.

Alfred didn't pout at the meeting. He didn't cross his arms over his chest and stolidly refuse to speak and he certainly didn't poke his bottom lip out and stare at the wall with kicked puppy eyes. And _of course_ he didn't refuse the customary box of donuts that got passed his way—he always got to the box last, ever since that meeting right after the Big War, when he'd stolen the last several… dozen… donuts from under Ivan's nose, and even Arthur had berated him for it. He'd been hungry, _really_, and he supposed his consumption habits hadn't changed much since then. That was what the problem was, really, and he'd have to cut back if he wanted to get back to normal, even if those were American donuts—the best in the world, obviously—original glazed Krispy Kremes, still piping hot even after they'd made their way down to his usual spot the head of the table. Alfred glared down at the donuts for a moment, his eyes nearly boring angry holes into the innocent, puffy little circles before he passed them along to Arthur, on his left.

"Alfred, you're such a bad cook," Arthur tutted importantly, daintily selecting one from the box and taking a delicate bite. "Really, who would eat these at all? _Americans_, really. You should learn how to cook _real_ food—like scones. Or biscuits! Not those silly little things _your_ people make, with processed sausages in them and whatnot. _Real _ biscuits."

Alfred wasn't really listening to what the man said—admittedly, he _rarely_ did—but this time his attention was all but captured by the other man's mouth, or more specifically, the donuts he was shoveling into it. Arthur had already devoured the first donut without noticing, and had moved onto a second as he talked, dipping greedily back into the small cardboard box while he conversationally berated Alfred. Alfred couldn't really blame Arthur; he was well-versed in Krispy Kreme donuts, and knew just how easy it was to eat a dozen of them, piping-hot, because they melted away like air in your mouth, so that you hardly noticed them, at least until they reappeared on your hips the next day. And God, they were delicious. Arthur's fingers were deliciously sticky with them, and it was all Alfred could do not to devour the other man's fingertips with his eyes, especially as they slid into his mouth.

"Alfred."

Alfred's eyes flicked blessedly away from Arthur's fingers, up to his face, where he was wiping stray donut glaze from his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. "Won't you have some? It's not like you not to eat," Arthur murmured, his eyes lightly chilled to hide his real concern even if they both knew Alfred could see it.

"S'okay," Alfred replied, shaking his head. "I'm not hungry today."

He watched as Arthur tried his best not to be concerned, pursing his lips this way and that until he finally set the donuts down on the table and pushed his chair out to stand. Patting Alfred's shoulder gently (and incidentally, filling the man's nose with the smell of delicious syrupy-sweet goodness,) Arthur gave a little grunt and stepped away, probably to bicker with Francis or discuss teas with Kiku or something. Alfred listened as Arthur's sensible shoes clicked away from him, leaving him all alone and defenseless against the charms of the Krispy Kremes.

The devious desserts were quick to launch a devilish attack, wafting their delicious scent all the way from their half-open box to Alfred's nose, and he felt his defenses wavering all too soon. Alfred steeled himself and prepared for a long, hard battle—the toughest and most fearsome kind of battle—_a staring contest_.

Suffice it to say, half a minute later his eyes were watering and the Krispy Kremes were about to win when they flipped their box open—which must've counted as cheating or something—and Alfred allowed himself to blink as he gave a cheer. "Oh ho ho! Take that, you Krispy Kremes! You cheaters! I won, oh ho ho!"

"Alfred, what _are _ you talking about?" a big man grunted, picking up the box and holding it in one large hand. "It's silly to fight with your breakfast, _da_?" Ivan asked, lifting a donut from the box and to his lips as he munched happily on it.

Alfred couldn't help but think that the man had never looked better. Eyes widening, he craned his head to get a better look at the larger man, whom he noticed filled out his large coat rather nicely. He wasn't _fat_, per se, but he was certainly _large_—and Alfred didn't mind that. It seemed fitting on the Russian man, especially after all he'd been through. He was big and strong and—

And he was eating all the donuts. Alfred pouted as he watched the Russian's large hands gently holding a soft, defenseless pastry, squeezed like a lover between three tender fingers, and if you'd asked him, he wouldn't have been able to tell you who he was more jealous of—Ivan or that traitorous Krispy Kreme, not that donuts were people or anything, but he figured they must be sentient to mess with his mind like this, andandand—

Ivan "_Mm_"ed happily as he took a bite, looking rather toothsome indeed as he devoured Alfred's donuts. The man moved to lick the sticky sweetness from his fingers (he'd discarded all that obsessive-compulsive handwashing of his after the Wall fell, thank God—Alfred had been ashamed of all the dirt under his nails back then, when Ivan kept his hands so meticulously clean,) his eyes widening when a hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Alfred?" he asked, his mouth opening in shock as fingers closed around him and pulled his hand toward Alfred.

His brain had shut down as soon as he moved, and it was instinct that kept him surging forward, his fingers clenching around Ivan's wrist and tugging the other man closer, closer, until those fingers reached Alfred's lips, not of their own volition, and he heard (and felt) Ivan suck in a surprised breath (the shudder traveling all through his chest and to his arms and into his fingertips) as Alfred's warm mouth closed around their sweetness.

Alfred's brain didn't start working again until he'd sucked all the sugary glaze from the man's strong fingers, and when he glanced upward, he saw Ivan's cheeks colored pink and bright, and it made Alfred feel all the warmer and hungier.

"_Alfred_," Ivan repeated, but softer this time, _breathier_, as his eyelids fell half-curtained, so only a sliver of violet slipped through.

"How 'bout another?" Alfred asked, hoarse, and reached a trembling hand into the box, pressing another delicate pastry against the man's lips.

Alfred's head spun, but he knew for certain that he'd never tasted anything better than the lingering sweetness on Ivan's lips or the honeyed sugar against the warmth of his tongue.

And when Ivan held him close and pressed him into his arms, it was hard to feel big at all. Even strong and immense as he was, Alfred felt _tinytiny_ while he was folded against Ivan, and it hardly mattered anymore whether he'd grown a little bigger 'round or not, because he was sure—as certain as suns rising or roosters crowing or Superman always winning, because of course he was an American hero and the American hero _always_ won– that the other man's arms would always be big enough to hold him, and in that moment, that was all that mattered.

(…A few moments later, he might worry about the pictures Francis had taken, or the way Arthur was gawping at him, or the new sketchbook Kiku was scribbling dirty pictures into, but until then he was more than content to spend this quiet eternity in Ivan's embrace, more blissful and uncaring than he had been for a decade of bittersweet donut mornings).

**AN**: If you made it through, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. If you had to run out and buy a dozen Krispy Kremes halfway through, I apologize—but I'm sure Alfred thanks you kindly for stimulating the economy.

This is a pretty cliché scenario—America getting fat—but I had to do it anyway. It was a floundering little three-page thing until about an hour ago, when inspiration struck, and three pages of donuts later, it was finished! Viola! It's rather dumb and silly and completely improbable, but I think it's cute… and sometimes, that's all that matters 3.

(On a side note, I'm studying in Oxford, UK, at the moment (Arthur~ILU~!) and there's a Krispy Kreme right next to Oxford Castle. I find it hilarious… poor Arthur. He's been infected by Alfred's bad cooking, just like everybody else… there, there.)

So! I hope you enjoyed it! Please review and tell me how I did :D.


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